


Paint

by knifepyjamas



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Also Kevin's Got Trauma, Angst, Charles Thinks About Kevin how Cecil Thinks About Carlos, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff then Angst then Fluff again, M/M, Painting, Started Dissociating Halfway Through This Whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23291017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifepyjamas/pseuds/knifepyjamas
Summary: Charles discovers some upsetting paintings Kevin has stored away and also some cute family stuff happens.
Relationships: Charles & Donovan & Kevin (Welcome to Night Vale), Charles/Kevin (Welcome to Night Vale)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Paint

The sun, as always, filters in through the windows, casting a brilliant light into the living room of Kevin’s house. The call of the morning vultures backdrop bubbly country instrumentals. Charles sits on the plush and pillow-covered couch, a smile on his face as he watches his boyfriend and son from over his “Guide to Theology Textbooks” theology textbook. They both kneel next to the tiered glass coffee table, which Kevin has recently replaced with child-safe thin, easily broken, and very sharp glass. On the table lay a large sheet of paper, along with many tubes and cases of paint. Kevin is holding a thin paintbrush, positioned delicately between his thumb and forefinger. Donovan, on the other hand, has forsaken his paintbrush in favor of his fingers. The paper is mainly covered with various shapes, most of which are yellow. There are a few other depictions: small, beautiful flowers painted by Kevin, larger and more cartoony flowers drawn by Donnie, suns, and smiling faces. Donnie and Kevin, too, are smiling. Mirrors of their art.

Some of the other people in the town of Desert Bluffs- formally Desert Bluffs Too- seemed to pity Charles for some reason. They treat him like a sheep mistakenly lulled into a wolf’s den. Strangers will ominously advise him to keep safe, acquaintances will ominously ask him if he regrets moving to the town, coworkers will ominously share concerned looks with each other when he brings up his family. Charles does not know why they do this. In moments like this, he feels like he’s the luckiest man in the world. Maybe not the universe, but certainly the world. 

Sure, there were plenty of things he doesn’t know about his new town. People here acted odd in a way that seemed to be caused by something outside of the town’s own strangeness. Having no qualms about seeing blood and gore was par for the course considering Desert Bluffs’ theological intrigue, but the way so many people worked tirelessly and without complaint? How very few people seemed to question things or act out against what was set? How people strove for some sort of artificial perfection? Those traits felt as if they were learned from something other than living in a weird place.

Kevin especially led him to believe that there was something more. Unless you drag him away or find some way to distract him, he’d work constantly. No pauses, no breaks, no rest. Charles was horrified to learn that he’d sometimes even go days without sleeping, yet still kept going. Whenever he did stop, he’d seem on edge and- not _exactly_ scared but still something that can be described as afraid. Paranoid, maybe? Anxious? Somehow even more stressed than when he was working? It’s as if Kevin thought that if he stopped for a moment too long, he’d be personally responsible for the universe unwinding and collapsing in upon itself. As a theologist, Charles knew it took way more than just one man to do that.

Even if he didn’t know a lot of things, Charles knew Kevin was perfect. His smile is sliced, grotesque and gaping and gorgeous and _perfect_. His eyes are empty, infinite- his eyelids bunch, fold, and slope over nothing so _perfectly_. His whole body barred scars and burns. Risen, vein-like ridges trace his shape, dancing across his back and arms, perfect. Stretched patches of red and white mark his chest, his palms, his lips, _perfect_. His left leg is almost jagged from the way shattered bone had weaved itself back together, his right turns to scar then to nothing at his knee. They were _perfect_. The way Kevin spoke so high and enthusiastic, even if just to thinly veil other emotions- the way he leads so strongly, powerfully, and completely- the way he finds no shame in the blood that more often than not covers him- it was all just _perfect_. _Kevin_ was _perfect_.

Charles watches as Donovan reaches out to the tube of yellow paint, which looks to be on its last leg. He squeezes out the little bit that’s left and smudges it across the paper with one finger. Kevin looks up from the flower he is painting to see Donnie trying futilely to get more pigment out from the container.

“Uh oh! We’re out of yellow!”

Donnie frowns, still trying to force something out. Kevin gently puts a claw on his hands, then takes the tube from him, setting it back down on the messy table.

“It’s no problem, sunflower! I have some more paints in my closet I can go get!”

Kevin goes to stand, but Charles is already up. He places his hand on his shoulder, smiling down at him and Donnie.

“Don’t worry, you two keep painting. I’ll get the paint.”

“Oh, thank you, baby! They should be in the pink crate on the left under the paintings I have there. Stay safe!”

Charles giggles at the caution, wondering what being could think it was powerful enough to safely live in Kevin’s closet. He presses a quick kiss on Kevin’s scarred lips and another on the top of Donovan’s head before turning and heading towards the bedroom. 

He loves Kevin’s house. It was a larger home, but still cozy. Not something so fancy that it felt more like a museum then somewhere to have a life. For as many places that things were neatly organized and spotless, there were places that were cluttered and dusty or bloody. There were more expensive-looking white and gold furniture and decorations that were balanced out by bright, colourful homemade ones. Little touches really made the place feel like Kevin’s: the hand-knitted blankets draped over the dining room chairs, the jars of teeth set on accent tables, the wall clocks that all pointed to pictures of the sun, and, of course, paintings Kevin had made himself. 

_“I am not just a building!”_ the house seemed to scream, _“I am a home! I am lived in! I am someone’s life!”_

Kevin’s room was very much the same as the rest of his house, maybe even more homey. Whenever he did his creative hobbies, it was in this room. Part of Charles wonders why. He has an office, and it was a nice office. Tidy, colourful, somewhere that just seemed fun to so much as be in. It was possible, though, that they were things that he realized he should separate from his work. Things to just enjoy without worrying of productivity and efficiency and some misconception of what exactly is perfection. 

The closet is a walk-in one. When you made your own house, it really was your choice on whether or not you wanted a walk-in closet, and Kevin knew he did. There’s plenty of things stored in it. Not just clothes but blankets, baskets, trinkets, anything that was needed but had no place anywhere else. The closet welcomed them with open arms. 

As Kevin had informed him, a bubblegum crate sits on a shelf to the left, resting upon paint-splattered sheets that he puts down when he paints. The first painting that sits on top is common to Kevin’s art niche: a centipede twisting over a splotchy scarlet backdrop. The strokes of the piece were heavy. Every single one was placed with precision and intent. Charles could see hundred, thousands, _billions_ of the paintings of centipedes his boyfriend made, and they would get no less beautiful.

Charles carefully lifts the canvas and sets it to the side. The one under it is another commonality for Kevin: a bright, wide human smile. All his art has a similar colour pallete: a gradient of reds from the deepest of crimsons to the lightest of blushes, oranges from the hue of sunsets now forgotten, blacks that were so dark they seem to absorb all light, whites than were so light they seem to restore all light the blacks stole. And, of course, every imaginable shade and tint of yellow. Sunshine, sunflower, golden, bone broth, infection, lemon, honey. His face mimics the painting in complete adoration of it.

The next one is of a fox. The strokes represent the fluffiness of a real fox’s fur so well that Charles feels like he could run his fingers across the canvas and be greeted with the soft sensation of hair. It is curled up into a tight ball, its tail covering its eyes. The middle of the fox is open as if it had been cut. The way the animal is laying and the way its viscera is strewn inside it draw the eye in a spiral all the way from the painting’s edges to its centre. Foxes were less common than centipedes or smiles for Kevin, but still a common one of his muses.

The painting under the fox is not. The subject of this one is a human woman from the shoulders up. She has dark skin and short, curly brown hair. She is wearing a bright yellow polo shirt and large square earrings. She seems familiar to Charles, but he is unable to recognize her. Where her face is, the painting has been violently scratched out, destroying all features that could be used to identify her. Did Kevin do this? Was it an artistic choice? It was unconventional for him, but not out of the realm of what he’d seen.

The next is what appears to be a painting of a family. A man, two women, and two children. They are standing in front of a dirty, blood-splattered wall. The two women and one of the children- the taller one- have been painted over with heavy black strokes, turning them into nothing but deep silhouettes. The man is painted over in a similar style, but with a burning red rather than the black. Something about him made Charles uneasy. The smaller child was almost untouched. The only markings on them were thick dots of black over their eyes, and a streak of that same red across their neck. 

This painting- it resembles the Goode family described in the story of All Smile’s Day, but… they weren’t the same. He isn’t sure how, but Charles knows that the younger child isn’t Felicia. They, like the woman in the other art piece, were familiar, but in a different way. Does he know this kid? Or, does he know who this kid is now?

With each painting he pulls out, Charles begins to get more and more uneasy, more and more unnerved. This one was of another woman. It is from the waist up. She looks very familiar, but he is sure this time that he has never seen her. The shape of her nose, the tilt of her smile, he’s seen those. A line of scarlet… paint? Is it paint? He hasn’t had a problem with blood before, but for some reason he _needs_ that to be paint.

A line of scarlet _paint_ is drawn across her throat but does not go over it like the child in the last painting. A few horizontal streaks go down from the first line. There are three of them, the farthest left being the shortest and the middle being the longest. More _paint_ is applied to her mouth, looking almost like it had dripped out from the canvas itself. God, it’s as if somehow her throat had been slit despite her being a painting. In more… _paint_ , a symbol- no. A logo is drawn over her chest. An S inside of a triangle. Charles has seen that logo before, but he does not know what it is for.

He is paranoid now, glancing over his shoulder in lookout for… he doesn’t know what. He’s never been one to scare easily, but something about these paintings hit the part of his brain that screamed something was wrong. He’s not afraid of the people in the art, he’s…

Kevin. The final painting in the crate is Kevin. The canvas is splattered with what is undeniably blood. Lots of it. The Kevin in the painting- he’s younger, maybe his early thirties? Late twenties? His hair is much longer and lighter, the blonde isn’t fading back to brown like his hair was now. The staunchest difference between the Kevin in this painting and the real Kevin is that he is not smiling. No natural smile, no gashes. In fact, this Kevin is scowling. He’s never seen him scowl before.

Where Kevin’s eyes would be is, like the woman’s face in the first painting, violently scratched out. The canvas is still peeling under Charles’s fingers. Almost like an apology for the lack of cuts in the original paint, blood draws a large, dripping smile on his face. The rest of Kevin’s body that is visible has been cut, slashed, and even stabbed. There is more blood in those lines, almost like he- the one in the painting- was bleeding.

Why… why would Kevin do this stuff to his paintings? Why, especially, to one of himself? Charles feels nauseated, dizzy. He realizes he isn’t scared of the paintings, in fact, he isn’t scared _of_ anything. He’s afraid _for_ Kevin. He knows he’s been through things, that somet-

“Heyy Charlie, you were taking a whi-“

Charles turns to face Kevin who had just arrived in the doorway. He is still holding the canvas, his hand shaking and his face no doubt pale. Looking at him in this moment, it’s… hard for Charles to see anything as being… wrong with Kevin. Nothing about his actions lately would have made him think that.

“Oh.”

Kevin’s smile faulters, but only for a second. He shifts to lean on the doorway, smoothing out his skirt and not breaking “eye” contact with him.

“So, you’ve found my more experimental art! I’ve been trying out some things and I think they’re… nifty concepts! Nothing unlike my ‘viscera on table’ or ‘rock that is bleeding’ painting, right? Right!”

“Kevin, baby, are you… okay? Do you nee-“

“I’m fine! Great as always! Absolutely joyous!”

Charles slowly, carefully, approaches Kevin. He places his hand on his shoulder again, gently as he can, and squeezes. He stares into his eye sockets, searching for any sign of what he was really feeling. He doesn’t hear it, but he feels Kevin sigh.

“My love-“

“I- Charles, I’ve talked some before about how… my memory is, well, it’s fucked up! I can’t remember so much! I… I paint what I can remember to try to hold on to the memories but they’re… they go away so often… I… get… ang- frustrated! And I destroy them. I…”

He’s not telling the whole truth, Charles can tell that, but he’s not going to press. He can hear Kevin’s voice getting breathier, raspier. The way he sounds when he’s about to “cry”. Of course he’s not going to force him to talk about things he doesn’t want to talk about- that he can’t talk about. He wraps his arms tightly around Kevin who buries his face in the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping even tighter around him. He rubs circles on his back, whispering to him.

“Kevin, I love you, I love you so much. I don’t know what happened to you, but you’ll be okay, alright? I’d go to the ends of the universe for you, baby. You’re perfect. I love you.”

They spend a while like that, holding each other close with Charles telling Kevin words of comfort. It’s nice. It’s emotional. It’s messy. It’s perfect. Kevin pulls out of the hug and grabs Charles’s hand. They make their way back to the living room, both of them oddly tired. As they went, Kevin told him about the paintings.

The first woman, that was Vanessa. Charles met her once on a visit to the radio station. She was very nice and funny, as well as a ghost. He had asked her about how she became a ghost to compare to why everyone in Pine Cliff was a ghost, but she told him she didn’t know. _“I was killed then just opened my eyes and was a ghost. It’s pretty cool,”_ She had said.

The second painting was Kevin’s family. He didn’t elaborate much on it besides that. Charles didn’t mind. He had known since first telling him about Donnie that he had a complex relationship with even the concept of a family. He knew he’d tell him when he was ready.

He did tell him, however, that the third piece of art was of his sister. Amy was her name. She was a few years older than Kevin. She had been killed. Murdered. He explained that someone had slit her throat, but that he didn’t know who. It hurt to hear how upset he was about it.

For the final painting, he said nothing more than it was a painting of his younger self he made look like him now.

Back in the living room, Donnie had abandoned painting- probably having gotten bored of waiting for more yellow. He was now playing with a toy giraffe, swinging it over his head like he would his planes and making giraffe noises. Both Charles and Kevin broke into smiles at the sight, a comfort easing over their previous melancholic conversation. Charles scoops his son into his arms. Donovan giggles as children do in response to being moved at high speeds.

“Let’s go wash your hands, okay Donnie? Then we’re gonna go lay down and take a nap with daddy, okay?”

Donovan nods and rushes off to the bathroom the moment Charles sets him down. He looks at Kevin and chuckles while shaking his head. Kids, huh? He follows him, helping him use the fancy gold soap to get all the bits of dried paint off. Kevin watches them from the hallway, his smile just as bright as it was when they were painting together earlier. 

“Hey kiddo, I should teach you how to make soap someday! We could make some that smells like those yellow Starbursts you love so much!”

Once Donnie’s hands are cleaned off, they pile on top of Kevin’s bed. Specifically, Kevin lays on his bed and Charles and Donnie curl up on either side of him. Charles has a hand reached over him, both to cuddle and to hold one of Donovan’s hands. Kevin’s sweater is soft, and his body is warm. He nuzzles against him, letting his sweet, metallic smell wash over him. Even after only laying down for this short amount of time, he feels his eyelids getting heavy. Being a teacher is tiring, being a dad is tiring, worrying is tiring. He is glad to have some time to rest, especially with his family.

Charles falls asleep at Kevin’s side, Donnie’s hand in his, thinking that maybe he is the luckiest man in the universe after all.

**Author's Note:**

> First, I have an idk headcanon? Theory? That the family in All Smile's Eve is modeled after Kevin's own family.  
> Second, the DB! Abby in this fic, Amy, my idea for her is that she was killed by Strex and Kevin cannot remember whether or not he killed her  
> Third, the concept of this fic I got from my friend (@sentient-cloud on tumblr)  
> My tumblr is @floralsick


End file.
